


Scars

by epochryphal



Category: Kill la Kill
Genre: Autism, Body Horror, Chronic Pain, Cutting, Dysphoria, Eye Trauma, Gen, Gore, Intrusive Thoughts, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Post-Canon, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, autistic overload, chronic migraine, not even life fiber fuckery this time just brains and body, photosensitivity, ptsd tag could also apply, vivid self-harm intrusive thoughts and ideation, wrists and forearms being freaky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2650103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epochryphal/pseuds/epochryphal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You stare down at your forearms, the flat planes of bare skin below rolled up sleeves. Twin pink lines wink up at you, almost but not quite symmetrical, left side a bit longer than the right.</p>
<p>Every atom of them is so awake you're afraid to move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Because autistic, OCD, chronic pain Iori Shiro is so, so important. And because getting lanced through the arms is seriously traumatic, and so are intrusive thoughts and body hyperawareness.
> 
> Written with love, and a lot of intensity.

You hurt.

This is a given, tautological. There has never been a time you can remember that you did not hurt.

But this is not the twisting daggers of constant migraine, though they still lurk behind and in your eyes. Nor is this the lurching jolt of dysphoria, the way your hand falls through chest before meeting skin.

It is not the full-body ache you awaken to every morning, or the burn in your eyes by the time you fall asleep. It is not the sting of stomach acid splashing out of place, or the twinge of guilt, self-hatred, whatever it is that creates the hot black void in your chest.

This is.

…

You're not sure what this is.

You stare down at your forearms, the flat planes of bare skin below rolled up sleeves. Twin pink lines wink up at you, almost but not quite symmetrical, left side a bit longer than the right.

Every atom of them is so awake you're afraid to move.

You've wanted to press ice cubes into your eyes, not over the lids but straight in, push until they replace the hell orbs currently occupying the sockets. You've fantasized about taking an actual dagger to your temple, thought about slitting open your abdomen and stitching your stomach lining into proper order. You've yearned to rip the heart from your ribcage, toss it over a branch, tug yourself up like a pulley system until the aorta finally gives way in a gush of tearing tissue. God knows the images you've conjured to counter dysphoria.

Point being: Violent thoughts flit across the surface of your mind all the time, some more feasible than others, some more grounded, tangible. They don't often latch on this tightly.

They don't make your skin tingle, sparkle at you, whisper promises of relief.

And they don't hijack your autonomic nervous system and stitch patterns into your veins, refusing to let you feel anything else even when you look away.

So you stare. You sit, palms up, arms resting on legs for stability's sake, and your gaze traces their faded blue branchings while you replay what you know.

Forging through the apocalypse had been simple. Focused. Being stabbed meant less than nothing when there were urgent reports to be radioed, helicopter nets to be thrown, vacuum devices to be developed. Every one of your comrades, your family, had faced far worse. So you'd slapped on some armbands, more for the pressure and reminder than anything else, and kept working. You'd sewn an army's worth of improved uniforms, woven in every last life fiber you had, watched as Matoi had absorbed them all and blasted into space to return naked as a newborn lamb.

Even then there were demands for your attention. Satuski, adjusting to a world without Ragyo, without the driving fire you'd met in her all those years ago. Houka, full of ambition and passion for life, tugging you along. Soroi, tending to your health and you to his, savoring precious moments of quiet. And of course, things like cloning, Hououmaru, and the continuing-albeit-now-minor presence of life fibers on the planet. You had your work, were pioneering the field and considered an expert.

But Satsuki had adapted, naturally, and is now largely occupied catching up with her long-lost sister—as well she deserves, of course. Soroi, considerate as ever, insists on giving you more than enough space to be young and independent, and you so dearly want him to cherish his hard-earned peace. The sense of urgency and personal relevance of life fibers is faded, more an academic exercise now than the old rush of projects with immediate applications. And even Houka has not achieved omnipresence, not yet.

Your phone buzzes on cue, screen lighting up with a message about a meeting being over and should ey grab anything from the grocery store on the way home. Instinct twitches your left arm and now the whole limb is alight with nerves. You don't trust yourself to move.

This had been pressing at the edges of your consciousness for some time, the ache of your forearms growing less dull and taking on a different quality than the rest of your body. You became more and more aware of them, conscious of finer details, how both sides would flare in silent harmony. You tried applying pressure, clasping hands over weak spots; and, though it soothed for awhile, when you let go the sensation was even louder. Cloth was the same if not worse, and your wardrobe has started shifting accordingly—although you refuse to concede your silk nightgowns, not yet.

You've forgotten how to be idle, is probably part of it, if indeed you ever knew how. Being still is itchy, unnatural. You can't shake the need to be doing something, progressing, maintaining your forward momentum lest it be lost.

Last night all the movement and dexterity involved in your normally comforting hair routine had been too much. You'd gone to bed while Houka was still awake, surprised to see you but too sleepy for questions. You'd wrapped eir hands around your scars and watched em hold you, studied the sleeping gap of eir lips, and eventually faded out of consciousness, only to wake alone save for the too-alert slits on your arms.

Objectively, there is absolutely nothing wrong with your wounds; Satsuki made sure you saw a specialist once everything was over, and you were given a clean bill of health (on that front, anyway). Nor do they feel sickly, or infected; there's not a hint of life fiber taint and you'd be literally the most qualified person in the world to detect it. No, there's nothing wrong with them. They're just…almost _too_ healthy.

How can it hurt to be _healthy_?

That, more than anything, stings the deepest.

You're still staring at your traitor body when it strikes you.

If they are truly to mirror your bangs, a reversed image to forcibly rebalance your careful asymmetry—if everything is to go back to matching, lopsided canceling out of soles on sidewalk cracks and pressurized blinks and evenly gritted teeth—for that to be _right_ , the left line needs to be a little longer.

Just enough to start at the same spot, you understand.

Of course, then there's the question of depth, authenticity, coming clean through to the other side and synching the back scars as well.

You wouldn't want to do things halfway.

Your skin twinkles at that, lines practically stretching toward you in tingly anticipation. The whole room is filled with needles. There's knives and boxcutters and length is the challenge but a very surmountable one given your skill and dedication to the tasks you take on. A gas burner should sterilize just fine, there's tongs for safe distance and nothing stopping you whatsoever from putting everything exactly right.

This time when your phone vibrates you don't even blink.

**Author's Note:**

> [this art](http://epochryphal.tumblr.com/post/101739046312/thecatprince-the-tailor) helped serve as muse


End file.
